


too full for sound and foam

by brinnanza



Series: crossing the bar [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Episode 2x5: XXIII, Episode Related, M/M, Oops! It's Tender, Oral Sex, gratuitous religious metaphors, it's consensual but they don't talk about it, very little talking in general actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: Flint lets his hand linger. Silver turns to look at him, his expression shifting. Flint knows what Silver said of him in the tavern, has heard second- and third-hand the tale he wove about Flint’s second coming. The expression he wears now is not one of Flint’s messenger but that of an acolyte - soft and open and very nearly reverent. Captain Flint is meant to terrify, but there is no fear in Silver’s expression now. He looks at Flint as if he can scarcely believe he’s allowed, as if he has not stood at Flint’s side every step of this path.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Series: crossing the bar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202309
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	too full for sound and foam

**Author's Note:**

> hello I'm back with more blow jobs. this is not porn so much as uh vaguely angst ridden character study with overwrought religious overtones, set in 2x5 after silver stomps dufresne's head in and talks to flint in the surgery. it's basically a continuation of that scene, right after "how good it feels". like listen I'm just saying john silver went to nassau to preach the gospel of james flint and when he came back, flint was moved to drop to his knees and give thanks. 
> 
> the title is from crossing the bar because I've apparently decided pirate fic should have shanty titles, thanks to jay for beta reading

The end of Silver’s stump is bright red and inflamed, surely in need of Howell’s tending, but Flint knows it is not the source of disquiet writ plain across Silver’s face. Silver bears his pain, the physical kind at least, in silence, as if acknowledging it will increase it, and only rarely does he allow Flint to see it. The expression he wears now though, Flint recognizes. 

It is new to Silver’s face, but he has seen it often on the faces of new pirates, the first time they run someone through or aim true with a pistol. The first time they take a life. It isn’t regret, exactly - there is too much satisfaction in it for that. Shock, partly, that they are capable of such violence. Horror, perhaps, at what they are becoming.

Flint sees it all on Silver’s face now, in his furrowed brow, in his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bench he’s sat upon. Flint knows without asking that Silver has not taken a life in this manner before tonight - not in his own defense, but simply for the sake of it. Because he _could_. It settles heavy on his shoulders, and Flint wonders how he will bear it in time. Some men, once they’ve felt such power, develop a taste for it, chase it down dark alleys until it consumes them. Still others are consumed by their guilt, drowning themselves in rum or opium to escape it. Somehow, Flint suspects Silver will fall somewhere in the middle, will adjust to it and learn how to carry it. 

For now, though, the weight is new, and Flint wishes to alleviate it in some small way if he can. He lays a comforting hand on Silver’s shoulder, a simple touch being the easiest route. He is unsure of its reception - Silver is just as likely to shrug him off, some quip about his own fortitude on his lips - but Silver allows it, lets it ground him. Some of the tension seeps out of his shoulders, and the line of his jaw softens. 

Flint lets his hand linger. Silver turns to look at him, his expression shifting. Flint knows what Silver said of him in the tavern, has heard second- and third-hand the tale he wove about Flint’s second coming. The expression he wears now is not one of Flint’s messenger but that of an acolyte - soft and open and very nearly reverent. Captain Flint is meant to terrify, but there is no fear in Silver’s expression now. He looks at Flint as if he can scarcely believe he’s allowed, as if he has not stood at Flint’s side every step of this path.

Even as the wrongness of it strikes him, Flint cannot help but drink it in. Silver may think himself a monster in Flint’s own image, twisted and ugly and capable of endless cruelties, but Flint knows better. He is himself that very thing by design, and he will not let it tarnish Silver. Whatever Silver has wrought, he has done it for Flint - not for the cause, but for the man. Flint does not deserve to be anyone’s true north, but he wants - needs, suddenly, with the desperate hunger of the doldrums - to show Silver his appreciation, his gratitude.

He is nearly breathless with it, overcome with the desire to drop to his knees and give thanks. That he wants Silver in this way is no surprise; even when he’d wanted to kill him, a part of him had wanted to fuck him as well. It isn’t merely physical desire that has heat pooling in Flint’s belly like strong ale on an empty stomach. No, he wants to mirror the reverence in Silver’s expression, reflect it back to its proper recipient.

Slowly, Flint slides his palm along Silver’s shoulder until it comes to rest against the side of his neck. Silver swallows, and Flint can feel his throat work; Silver’s pulse pounds against Flint’s skin, the warmth and thud of Silver’s life beneath his hand. Silver’s eyes slip closed and Flint marvels at the trust inherent in the act, another benediction he does not deserve. 

He thumbs the streak of blood that still stains the side of Silver’s face, saying nothing. Perhaps it is cruel to make him ask, but Flint needs to hear it. Silver’s tongue has done its work tonight, and Flint would bid it rest, but he must have Silver’s permission. He is certain of Silver’s inclinations, whether Silver himself is conscious of them or not, but despite how Flint burns for him, he will not force this upon him.

It’s a soft thing, when it comes, barely audible. Silver draws in a shuddery breath, and then he whispers, “Please.” His brows knot as if he is unsure exactly what he is asking for, but Flint will give it regardless.

He withdraws his hand and sinks to the floor before Silver and waits for him to meet his gaze. There is an unmistakable heat in it when he does, and Flint strokes up Silver’s thigh. He pauses at the button placket of Silver’s trousers, giving him one last out. 

It doesn’t come. Silver turns toward him, resituating himself on the bench, and then simply watches him. Silver may not yet understand this part of himself, but Flint sees straight through to the heart of him. Silver wants this, wants Flint’s eyes and his touch and his attention, wants it just as desperately as Flint himself had yearned for someone else all those years ago, in another room, in another life.

Flint grounds himself with a slow breath and opens Silver’s trousers, drawing him out. It has been so long since he allowed himself this, to kneel before another man, and he will not taint the debt he owes Silver with his own ghosts.

Silver inhales sharply when Flint gets a hand on him. Flint tries not to wonder how long it’s been since Silver has felt someone else’s skin like this, just gives Silver a few slow strokes, relearning the feel of a cock that is not his own. He does not intend to tease Silver and there isn’t time to draw it out the way he’d like, but he can spare a moment to savor the way Silver’s cock hardens under his touch.

In another life, perhaps, Flint would have pressed sucking kisses to Silver’s thighs, nipped at the vee of his hips with sharp teeth, soothed the bite with a lap of his tongue. He’d have taken the time to kiss Silver, to learn his mouth, his body, what makes him gasp, what makes him howl. But Flint is ten years gone from that life, from that man, so he simply leans in to take Silver into his mouth, sliding down with firm, wet pressure.

Silver’s breath is ragged as Flint sucks him, hips twitching up with the rhythm. It isn’t forceful; his hands are still clamped on the edge of the bench like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if given free reign. For a moment, Flint regrets shearing all the hair from his head. He wants to feel Silver’s fingers curl around his locks, longs for Silver’s touch. But this is already an indulgence he can ill afford. He can do this for Silver, offer his supplication, but it cannot be more than that. Not with everything at stake. Not before Silver even knows to ask for the rest of it.

Flint looks up then, unable to help himself. Silver’s eyes are locked on him, blown black with desire. His face is pink with a flush that spreads down his neck and past the vee of his shirt collar. Silver’s bottom lip is pulled between his teeth to stifle his throaty little cries, and god, Flint wants to taste it, wants to sink his own teeth into those plush lips, feel those teeth scrape over every inch of his skin. He is hard in his trousers, arching for relief, but he ignores it. Later, maybe, when he is alone, he will remember the way Silver’s eyes never leave his face, the way Silver’s thighs tense with suppressed motion. 

Flint is not a religious man, has never put his faith in any god, but he could worship this. He could dedicate himself to this, to the way Silver’s chest heaves as he pants, the way the yellow lantern light turns Silver’s skin golden.

For now, though, he just swallows around Silver’s cock, trying to speak without words the tempest of desire and gratitude and - god, and _love_ churning within him. The realization almost stops Flint cold, struck still at the weight of it, but Silver whines, deep in his throat, and Flint reapplies himself. He chases the thought from his mind with the taste of Silver’s skin. 

He cannot love Silver, not now, not as he incites a war in another man’s memory. Not at all. He strokes the shaft of Silver’s cock with his tongue and hollows his cheeks with a hard suck, and then Silver is coming with a series of poorly-muffled cries. Flint swallows, gentles Silver through every quivering aftershock, and then withdraws, returning to his feet.

When Flint dares to meet Silver’s eyes again, that reverent look is back, as if Flint is some divine thing made flesh that Silver hardly deserves. It’s wrong, like an ill-fitting coat - Flint is the one that is undeserving, Silver the one who merits this twisted kind of worship. Flint cannot help himself; he leans forward to kiss the expression off of Silver’s mouth. 

Silver follows, slipping his tongue inside Flint’s mouth as if he’s chasing after the taste of himself. Flint allows it for longer than he should. Silver’s whimpering little moans are intoxicating, and Flint wants to breathe them in, make them a part of himself he can keep for future reference. 

Instead, he pulls back, placing a quelling hand on Silver’s shoulder when Silver gives chase once more. It’s a mockery of his earlier touch, an invitation that has been rescinded. He cannot allow himself this, not again. Silver is altogether too dangerous, slipping into the cracks of Flint until the saltwater tang of him erodes every surface. 

“Please,” Silver whispers, practically begs. His brows are drawn together in what looks like agony, and Flint cannot entirely tell if it’s genuine. “I want to--”

“It’s not a good idea,” Flint says. The unsteadiness of his voice betrays him and he steps back. Even in the belly of the ship, filled with stale air, the space between them now is cold.

“I don’t care,” Silver says roughly. “Please, Captain - _James_ \--”

Flint barely suppresses a flinch; it does not escape Silver’s notice. “You will,” Flint says, and he leaves Silver there in the half light, trusting him not to follow.

Silver doesn’t.


End file.
